Are Self-Exploding Beings inwardly Imploding?


 

Are the self-exploding inwardly imploding?

Not knowing that the seeds of their self-destruction reside quietly inwardly already taking root. Ready to root out fabricated dogmas.
Boston Bomb crushed avian souls flying towards Heaven. Chaos rules the lands. Demonic Fairytale stories being lit up global TV screens.
Carnage Couture is all the rage!!

Socialites debate levels of thinness while screaming crying babies suckle on long dried up teats.

Life continues on in glass castles unfazed by human suffering. Walking Stepford skinny chic walking decorations immobilized shields of Oil dollars. One piece of glittering jewelry could feed and house one thousand lost humanities. Let us trip the light fantasies weaving around hunger, blight and destruction all the while knowing it will never touch our gleaming manors. Golden parachutes always on hand.

Mankind marches on towards dinosaur extinction by our own hands. WinTourist DashKardian superficial fantasies supplicate the masses fill the empty plates providing empty calories while Rome burns. Politics, religion unreasonable fears of contamination. Moon-Skitters thrive on cell division.

Say Their Names!! Never allow their memories to fade!!

Our decision whether, how, & when to escape the matrix.

Are the Self-Exploding inwardly Imploding? Truth, Compassion, Understanding and Victory shall win out over evil, wickedness and animosity!!  For the sacred has now become filled with the filth of the profane. An Outhouse disguised under the mantle of being a Holy Temple.

http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2014/nov/23/imran-qureshi-ikon-gallery-birmingham-review-hauntingly-beautiful

http://www.artspace.com/imran_qureshi

 

Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi
Imran Qureshi

All Photos are the artwork of Imran Qureshi

Lost Parakeet

24 Hour Pizza and Parakeets


http://hyperallergic.com/242736/live-parakeets-and-bullfrogs-amid-the-wreckage-of-war/?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=The+First+Artwork+Made+in+Outer+Space&utm_content=The+First+Artwork+Made+in+Outer+Space+CID_35bf1cbbb118a2eb97119378faaec272&utm_source=HyperallergicNewsletter&utm_term=Live%20Parakeets%20and%20Bullfrogs%20Amid%20the%20Wreckage%20of%20War

http://www.nycsubway.org/wiki/Abandoned_and_Disused_Stations

Lost Parakeet
Parakeet

Whilst spelunking illegally in the subterranean caverns of abandoned subway stations my partner and I came upon an entire underground city.  A dim, dark, dismal world of creeps and shadows yet illuminated by bursts of flying colors.  Drawn into soaring searing winged rainbow brightness were heart shaped barbed wire around a complex populated by shades, shadows, ghosts and spirits. Not so much to keep them from getting out but to prevent flesh beings from getting in. Like Bot beings from Metropolis they went about their daily chores, duties and jobs seemingly oblivious to changes taking place around them.

Voices wavered and shook creating echo chambers of reverberating sounds.  Frozen seaside faces mouths agape in silent screams.  My nerves adrift on a sea of razors. My breath the color of repose.  Coming towards me the cyclist who a few months ago lay in a crumpled heap his bike flung across the median, he a corpse cordoned off by yellow police tape while tourists take photos to upload on Facebook and Instagram.  Once headed 100 miles an hour into a Vortex, now upright said cyclist strides as King in this darkened world.  The Coroner declares………..He stripped off everything he had been.  He died as he came into the world. All the layers of the identity removed he became himself again.  Out of Potters Field and straight into Destiny.

Enraged the Minotaur went into combat mode launching heat seeking missiles, Molotov Cocktails and flaming boulders at our encampment. The explosions in his head became a fiery reality. Having survived an attack by the Minotaur they called it Resurrection Alley.  An insurrection upon whispers of ectoplasm who had no knowledge of danger. Like Sisyphus condemned to have his liver torn out each day they continued their rituals indifferent to a storm of chaos knowing they were the eye of the storm a vacuum of apathy.  Blood colored feces littered the floor as the legless man snaked his way across the corridors, then did a neat pirouette on his hands.

They found the Postman dead on the living room floor. LSD’d into a delicate condition.

Squeezed out cumulus clouds lefty dewy footprints over gravel, dirt and rubble.  The Necropolis is a living Cyclone of Scimitars ready to strike.

Go to Sleep………

Go to Sleep……….

Go to Sleep…………

I felt myself gurgling choking on blood and vomit I coughed up the bullet then I let go.  Red robin took the shiny casings to feather her nest.

For I too am a denizen of this debris strewn wasteland.